The Dwarven company picked their way steadily down the beaten track. Thick vegetation crowded in on them on each side. The silence of the forest carried a subtle threat as the travel weary dwarves headed deeper into the snares of the wood. Tree branches stretched over their heads, creating an emerald canopy, but this far from gave them a feeling of shelter. They were anxious to be free of these scarecrow-like trees. However, Thraq, the leader of the Dwarven patrol, raised a mottled green glove, calling a halt. His coal black beard was braided with precious jewels, a mighty war axe strapped to his back. The fifteen Dwarves hacked at the bushes, until they created a small clearing in the dense forest. Thraq surveyed this with his brother Thrael at his side. The entire company was clothed in green and brown cloaks, woollen tunics and thick leather boots. Their mission was one of speed, and weighty armour would just slow them down. But, under their cloaks, they each carried small, sharp dagger some even had bows and spears, not the war axes they were used to, but it was better than being defenceless.
Tents were erected and a fire kindled. The dwarves sat around the flames and roasted a wild boar they hunted earlier that day. They sang tales of old, feasted heartily and washed the meal down with river water. Content, they crawled into their tents and gratefully allowed themselves to be taken by the warm arms of sleep. Thraq had been chosen to keep watch first; He sat by the fire watching the flames dancing in the darkness, removing his mottled green gloves he flexed his hands and drew his dark brown cloak around him too keep the chill of the night off; he wasn't accustomed to wearing leather but it was necessary not to attract too much attention. The dwarf pushed a braid of his coal-black hair out of his face, his dark blue eyes staring into the darkness. He wouldn't admit it, but the darkness of these woods scared Thraq. Lifting his axe from the ground Thraq laid it across his lap, compared to his worn leather and cloth armour it was a thing of beauty shining in the light of the flames. Thraq pulled a wet stone from his pouch and started honing the already deadly sharp edge of the axe. The only noise for a time was the soft rasping sound of stone against metal. Then a sound broke the silence of the night; a howling scream that chilled Thraq to his bones. There was something barbaric and animal in that scream. The dwarf jumped to his feet, his hawk-like eyes straining to find the source of the noise in the inky blackness that surrounded him, but all he could see were the skeletal outlines of the trees that enclosed the camp. The fire was growing dimmer, the flames turning into embers. Thraq hefted up his battle-axe, the surface catching the light of the dying fire and then the shadows started to move. "Get up!" He roared. His voice sounded hollow and broken, filled with terror as the shadows converged on the camp. He knew his warning had come too late, as the last glimmers of light died from his world. Power radiated from the shadows as they rippled from their hiding. Claws ripped apart the dwarves' tents. Thraq stared in wide-eyed horror at the unfolding nightmare. The dwarves were outnumbered, unprepared and weapon less.
Dwarven screams shattered the silence of the forest as the bloodshed began.
